The Count of the Lines
by Hannah Lynn McDonald
Summary: The Machine sends Adam to help a depressed girl. Warning for mentions of suicide and self-harm.


_Go to her._

He stumbled and nearly fell at the sudden entry of the Machine to his mind.

 _Now_ , _Ætius._

He looked around the street corner he had stopped on, at the people continuing on their lives.

 _She is a number. You must do this. The girl on the bench._

The warm presence in the back of his head vanished at the end of her instructions, and he twisted to look around again. Seeing a young girl slumped on the bench of the nearby park, he glanced at the street and then turned towards her with a sigh.

She glanced up when she heard him coming and tugged her sleeves down, wrapping her arms around herself and looking back out at the birds scratching in the small park.

He stood at the end of the bench for a moment, understanding dawning. "You defeat yourself if you think about it."

She glanced up at him and then let her gaze drop. He waited a moment, and she determinedly lifted her gaze again. "About what?"

He didn't answer. "You often dress better."

Her arms clenched tighter around herself. "And you would know now?"

"You come here often."

She shrugged. "Lots of people do. It's the city."

He acknowledged her point. "You do not deny me."

"What business is it of yours? I can wear a hoodie if I want. It's cold."

"It is. You would feel better if you took the time, child."

She stiffened. "I'm not weak."

He tilted his head to the side, regarding her again. "I did not say you were." He paused, and then held a hand out to her. "Come."

She stared at the hand for a moment, and then inched away from him.

He rolled his eyes. "There is a coffee shop across the street. I am not asking you to run away with me, child."

"I – I'm waiting for someone..."

He sighed. "Yes, you are. But we will sit by the window and you may watch for them."

She still hesitated.

"Come. Please."

She narrowed her eyes, and then stood up, gesturing him forward.

He carried the drinks to the table she had found in the busiest part of the shop, setting hers before her and taking his seat opposite her.

She tugged her sleeves down to her fingertips again and took a sip, not fully meeting his eyes.

He leaned back, looking out the window to watch the people pass by on the street.

They were quiet for several minutes; and he forcibly pushed the worried tendrils out of his mind, demanding privacy.

"I see you often."

Her gaze snapped back to him, but he didn't look away from the window.

"Occasionally, you have a child; often you are alone – but you are never happy. That park is your...quiet place."

"It's a park. It's nothing but quiet."

He hummed in agreement. "A park beside a street. A piece of quiet in the middle of chaos. A place of peace without the interrupting voices."

She took another drink, not looking up again.

"Who were you waiting for? Someone to come, or someone to leave? Someone to be free, or someone to free you?" He finally took a sip of his own. "In the end, it will not matter. There is only one person that you will wait for – that you have waited for this long." He turned to look at her. "Have you set the appointment?"

She opened her mouth.

"Do not play with me, child."

She shook her head instead.

"Then you will wait for him. You will not seek him out – you will _wait_ for him."

Her hand was shaking around the cup, and she carefully set it down. "I can't..."

"You _will_." He leaned forward. "You _must_."

She finally looked up to meet his gaze evenly, calm. "Why?"

He blinked, and then slowly leant back. His cup sat forgotten on the table. "There was once a young man."

She rolled her eyes but he ignored her.

"He had a sister. She was older than him, cared for him. They stood by each other through all things, and could tear each other down at the same time they built each other up."

"So? Normal siblings."

"Yes. Normal. And resourceful. A kitchen knife was simple enough to obtain, and the veins were simple enough to find beneath the skin." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee and looking out the window again. "He found her. She survived."

"Good for her."

"He did not."

"Too bad."

"Indeed. He blamed himself for not seeing the pain behind her mask, for making her take care of him as well as herself." He ignored the flinch of the young girl sitting opposite him. "He hid it as well as she did."

"...did he make it?"

"No." He looked back to her. "He shot himself. His friend hated her for it, for not seeing it in time either; and both were put in the hospital. His son was an orphan and wondered why his father left because his mother blamed herself and feared to tell her son the truth. The brother's father blamed the sister and his wife. The wife blamed the school and the music. The school blamed itself..."

"You made that up."

"No. That is not my story, but my story is very similar. I lived. Others did not. There is too much pain and you attempt to balance the scales but you will eventually attempt to lance the wound. It will not work, and will spread the infection to others."

"How dare-" She choked.

"How dare I? Would you ask the same of your friend? Of your sibling? If they saw the lines drawn over you and confronted you? Or would you be relieved even as you were angry? You will not tell another, child. In that, you are weak. You must be strong and you hurt yourself more. You depend on yourself and you welcome silence. The 'quiet'. But you will wait. You _must_ wait."

She looked away and his hand darted out and grabbed her chin.

"You _will_ wait. I will see you every week – you _will_ wait."

"What if I don't?"

"Can you promise that none would follow you?"

She hesitated.

"Then think of that." He released her and then hesitated, gently grasping her forearms as he stood up. "Wait. Promise to wait. There is more than this. I swear to you – it will be worth the fight."

* * *

 _AN: a mixture of two stories I couldn't finish separately. Basically, The Machine sees patterns of premeditation – what if it saw someone planning to kill themselves? Also, once someone has been down a road, it is MUCH easier to see the signs in others. For Adam, self-harm is basically repeated suicide._ _4-9-2016_


End file.
